


Bleached

by Uniasus



Series: Bleached [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other, Post-Canon, love is painful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: One by one, Crowley's feathers are turning white.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Bleached [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1748113
Comments: 24
Kudos: 150





	1. Bleaching

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Love and a cough](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21956485) by [meinposhbastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard). 



Crowley conjured a mirror that took up his whole wall and curved around him. Then, he pulled out his wings.

Black. Shiny. Iridescent even. For the past century or so Crowley had taken to describing them as an oil slick. It gave him the same feeling, sometimes, looking at them. The rolling in his stomach, the sight of something dirty covering something pristine. And, now, a bit of shame too. _This could have been prevented._

Not that he wanted to be redeemed and Rise to Heaven. Or regretted his Fall. It was just... Aziraphale had asked to see them and Crowley's wings weren't near as beautiful as they used to be.

He _knew_ Aziraphale had no frame of reference. Would take one look at Crowley's wings and declare them beautiful. Crowley would say they weren't. Aziraphale would insist they were and proceed to show him just how beautiful he thought Crowley's wings, and Crowley, were. It was their typical pattern. Crowley, apparently, held a lot of pent up body-shaming he wasn't aware of until Aziraphale asked to see things.

Aziraphale had seen Crowley’s eyes, elbows, knees, and a myriad configuration of Efforts. His wings were the last.

He ran a finger down the inside of his right primaries, straightening out what he could reach.

They'd been white once, his wings, with a sheen like pearls, with a scattering of golden lights. Stars, each of his own creation mapped across his wings. He had no stars now, just a sick, oily collection of black that would never light up.

He curved his wing, the wrist low so he could look at the other side of his feathers. This bit was hard to groom and zip close, but he'd do his best to be as polished as possible when he went to the bookstore later. He twisted his back to smooth out his upper coverts and when his fingers caught on a loose feather, he plucked it free.

Ten minutes later, looking down at the small collection of shed feathers, Crowley nearly had a heart attack when he noticed a white one. Slowly, he bent down to pick it up.

It was white. Simply white. No pearl sheen, no touch of silver that would identify it as Aziraphale's, no hint of celestial magic. It felt dead in his hand, a shocking sensation, and logic dictated it came from his own wings.

With a quick snap, Crowley adjusted the mirror in front of him. It angled, bouncing reflections. Crowley lifted his wings and spread his feathers as wide as they would go. 

One, two, five, seven, twelve. Thirteen, if you counted the feather in his hands, white spots on his wings. Against his black shiny ones they stood out as ugly, matte spots. Points of contrast that drew the eye and made Crowley want to flinch away. Feathers where color and magic had been bleached away. 

He ran the feather he held between two fingers, first one direction and the other as he ruffled and smoothed it. 

Bleached. Drained. Parts of his body lacking demonic power or aura. That sounded almost like...

He cast a few protections and shifted, bringing his occult form forward. At least twenty spots appeared on his body, and it was rather obvious what they were now.

Scars.

Scars he hadn't had three years ago, after the apocalypse. Scars that could only be the result of contact with something holy, for what else could harm a demon so?

Which meant, as the only holy thing Crowley interacted with, Aziraphale was responsible.

He snapped back to his corporal form, banished his wings, and shooed the mirror away. Whatever Aziraphale had done, it didn’t hurt and no doubt he hadn't meant it. Regardless, Crowley vowed to never reveal his wings to the angel.

* * *

It was a mite painful, the way Aziraphale tried not to pout or sound disappointed when Crowley told him he changed his mind about Aziraphale looking at his wings. That glance the angel got years ago while they faced down Satan would have to do.

In contrast, Crowley started looking at his own wings more. Watching more feathers scar white, more parts of his true form burned, purified by something. It didn't scare Crowley as much as he thought, gathering scars and not knowing what caused them.

He tried to pick up a pattern, matching Aziraphale's actions to the bleaching of his demonic aura, to no avail. Sometimes sex turned a lot of feathers white, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes just spending a day in each other's quiet company would bring white patches to his demonic skin where it hadn't before.

Things clicked almost a year later. Crowley's down was salt-and-pepper, half his right arm scared and white under his human skin. They'd gone to see Romeo & Juliet for the forty-seventh time, and like always Aziraphale made a comment about how powerful, and perhaps irrational, love could be. They passed a missionary walking to the Bentley afterward, shouting into a megaphone about the power of God's love.

_What about an angel's love?_ he thought the next day, sitting on his bed and twirling a feather. _Less powerful than Grace, but still something from a Holy being._

Love burning away darkness. Love conquering evil. Love pressed against his skin and leaving permanent marks, banishing unloved parts of his psyche.

Crowley he didn’t mind his white feathers at all if that was the case. He only wondered how much could he handle. He wanted as much as possible.

* * *

Crowley found himself eager to stop time one afternoon, wanting to make the sensation of Aziraphale inside him last as long as possible, and realized he couldn't. He should have noticed sooner, he supposed, that the burning away of his demonic essence meant his ability to tempt, conjure, and curse would shrink.

He hid his surprise in a gasp from a large thrust and turned his attention back to the angel loving him. But when they were done, when Crowley had a bit of space to himself, he opened his eyes to his occult self.

Five years in his relationship with Aziraphale, his skin looked sun-dappled. Parts in the sun, parts in the shadow of perhaps a tree. How much of his power had fled in the face of love? 30%? 40%? It was hard to say with how irregular the white spots were.

He traced a new one, a spot loosely connected to his left hip in his corporation.

Crowley needed to relearn his limits and never let Aziraphale know what they were.

* * *

Eventually he’d run out of power. What that meant, Crowley didn’t know, but it was coming.

So it did, ten years after the pair of them switched hereditary enemies to lovers. They planned to dine at the Ritz, and as he always did Crowley pulled up the power to ensure they had a reservation as they walked out the door.

Snapping his fingers felt like simply that – a human snap.

Quickly, behind Aziraphale’s back, he tried to do something a little less intensive, a little closer. Lock the door. That too failed.

“Why don’t we go someplace else, other than the Ritz?” Crowley asked.

“Like where?”

Desperate, the demon gestured down the street. “We could walk until we find a place with an open table?”

“Open table? Since when has a full restaurant stopped us from-” Crowley’s wince had Aziraphale stop. “Something’s wrong.”

“Psh, no. Nothing’s wrong.”

“They why didn’t you get us a reservation at the Ritz like you always do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Figured it was your turn.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. They never _took turns._

All Crowley could think was _no more power._ He still hadn’t figured out what the meant. A demon who had all his demonic-ness washed away. Would he die? Eh, best to plan for the worst cuz it usually happened. Which meant, if this was his last day with Aziraphale, he didn’t want to fight.

“Angel, please. Just get us a reservation at the Ritz.” He couldn’t quite stop himself from pleading, but he hoped the growing desperation and sadness in his chest wasn’t obvious. “I want to have dinner with you there.”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said softly, lifting onto his toes to kiss Crowley’s cheek. “But we’re talking later.”

“Okay,” Crowley agreed, taking Aziraphale’s hand and leading him to the Bentley.

* * *

They had a perfectly normal dinner – the angel ordering dish after dish and complimenting them all while the demon watched and enjoy a combination of black espresso and wine. There was nothing to make this dinner more special than any other, aside from the little voice in the back of Crowley’s head suggesting this may be his last.

Even if that _was_ the case, Crowley didn’t want anything different.

He drove slower than usual back to the bookshop, though if he had to be honest, he’d been slowing down the past two years. It took magic to make the car go without fuel, to make sure he had a parking spot or didn’t hit anything. Aziraphale eyed the speedometer warily, but said nothing about Crowley doing the speed limit.

Once inside the bookshop, Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and led him upstairs to the bedroom. He closed the door behind them, then stripped off his jacket and shirt.

“Crowley, please. I know you’re insatiable, but I really do want to -”

“I’m showing you my wings.”

Aziraphale’s mouth clicked shut.

Back toward the angel, Crowley sat mermaid-style on the bed and summoned his wings.

“Crowley! They’re white!”

“Yeah, been turning white for the past ten years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There was the light touch of fingers on Crowley’s left wing as Aziraphale started exploring. Like the scholar he was, the angel instantly picked up what was wrong. “They’re all dull. Magicless.”

“Me too. You can look.”

He couldn’t feel Aziraphale’s celestial eyes on him, but he heard the gasp. “Crowley, what happened? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Crowley hunched in on himself. “I didn’t want to.”

“Well, why not? Did you _want_ this to happen?”

Crowley didn’t answer.

“Crowley!”

“Look, I didn’t want it to happen, no. But when I found out what caused it, I wasn’t going to stop it.”

“Well why not! This could very well kill you!”

He shrugged, doing his damnedest to keep his emotions in check. He didn’t want a fight. “Dying cuz of love is not a bad way to go.”

“What?”

Crowley flinched. Aziraphale might have whispered the word, but it still sounded as if the angel had taken a kidney blow. When Crowley turned around to look at him, the angel was pressed against the door, hand covering his mouth, and tears in the corner of his eyes.

“See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“You _wanted_ me to hurt you?”

Crowley shook his head. “It doesn’t hurt. And you didn’t know. I didn’t want you to know because it would hurt _you._ And then... then you’d leave.”

Aziraphale’s hand stopped inching toward the doorknob.

“Now,” Crowley continued, “it’s a little too late. Damage done.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ve got no power left, Aziraphale. Can’t even lock the door.”

He opened his eyes when he felt two hands cup his face.

“Oh, love.” Aziraphale kissed him. Kissed him soft and gentle, but Crowley didn’t want that right now. And hey, he didn’t need magic to tempt Aziraphale to do what he really wanted. Crowley’s hands and mouth knew that trick.

* * *

Three hours later, Crowley felt himself drifting off. His wings were still out, stretched over the bed, while Aziraphale pressed against his right side, stroking Crowley’s hair. It’d been neither the longest or hottest coupling they’d had, but Crowley would still put it up there in his top three, what with all the deliciously slow body mapping they’d done.

Both of them, Crowley suspected, had worried it would be the last time they could touch each other. 

“Explain it to me?” Aziraphale whispered. “How my love hurt you?”

Crowley hummed, exhausted. He couldn’t open his eyes. No magic, no life. And the amount of love Aziraphale had sent his way in the past three hours couldn’t have been small. If he looked at his true self, would his body look like that of a vitiligo patient? His skin full of pigmentless scars?

He buried his face into Aziraphale’s chest. “It’s a lie demons can’t love. I love you after all.” He sensed a kiss in front of his ear. “Maybe She stripped our ability to experience it when we Fell, a reminder that we scorned hers. Or maybe it’s cuz you’re an angel, and love’s like holy water. It destroys demons, just more slowly. And really angel, loved to death? Not a bad thing.”

“I suppose there are worse ways to go.”

Crowley thought he felt tears on his face, but he wasn’t sure, crossing the border into sleep.

Neither of them expected he’d wake.


	2. Permanence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it's so much easier to write from Crowley's POV than Aziraphale's. I did not like writing this chapter at all.

Aziraphale watched Crowley sleep, half of his eyes inspecting the human body on the bed, the other half scrutinizing his still form on the astral plane. The only spots of color on Crowley were on his corporation - the fiery hair and inky black snake tattoo.

The angel reached out a hand to stroke along Crowley’s back, hesitated, then gave in to the desire. Like Crowley had said, the damage was done. The demon's wings were white, his skin the same. The result of Aziraphale’s love for the demon chasing away parts of Crowley’s demonic self until there was nothing left.

No black wings. No black scales. No magic. And while humans lived without it, could demons?

His stroked Crowley’s love-stained body. Lamented that it led to this, even as he knew he’d never regret the past ten years.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t sleep. He understood none of the reasonings Crowley gave him and so failed to develop the habit. Earth was so wonderous, why sleep when he could read or softly listen to music?

For two weeks, while he didn’t sleep, he would admit to falling into a trance. He surveyed Crowley breathes: steady, shallow, there. He brushed his skin: soft, smooth, his to touch. Carded fingers through his hair: short, coarse, Aziraphale’s favorite color. Nosed at the nape of his neck to pick up Crowley’s sent: sulfur, mulch, and sweat from their last session.

And after fourteen days, Aziraphale began to think that perhaps he hadn’t killed Crowley after all.

He didn’t try to guess why; he didn’t have nearly Crowley’s gift for imagination. All that mattered was that Crowley lived and slept. And so, Aziraphale looked into bastardly ways to wake his lover up.

Crowley hated the cold. So Aziraphale stripped off the covers and lowered the temperature in the room, hoping it’d wake him up. It didn't.

Aziraphale dumped cold water on the demon. He didn't stir.

He blasted all the music Crowley liked but would never admit to knowing. Via speakers, headsets, the Bentley parked outside. Nothing.

Well, if love from an angel had been what put Crowley to sleep, maybe it kept him asleep. Aziraphale wrote a note, left it on the pillow next to Crowley's nose, and left the bookshop.

* * *

Aziraphale's phone rang three weeks into his tour of Russia. He stared at it, the name Crowley flashing across the screen with a thumbnail of his lover drinking a glass of wine above it.

The ringing stopped while Aziraphale stared at the device, but he hastily answered the second call.

"Crowley?" He breathed.

"Angel." Crowley's voice sounded like the Dead Sea Scrolls - thin, dry, cracked, and sandy. "Where are you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Come home."

"I can't do that, my dear. Did you read my note?"

"Fuck your note." The demon fell into a coughing fit. From across the continent, Aziraphale felt the pain of it. "Come home."

"Not until you’re better."

"How better?"

Aziraphale sighed.

"Give me an answer, angel. Because if I don't know when you're coming home, I'll be forced to find you."

"No! Don't. Please." Crowley would seek out Aziraphale ages before he should, no doubt collapsing on the way. Or driving the Bentley into a tree. Falling asleep at the wheel and hitting someone. Any of those situations was unthinkable. "I'll come home when, when your wings are black again."

"Angel-"

"Not all black! Just, just half black. How long did it take, for the second half of them to turn white?"

"Two and a half years," Crowley whispered.

"Well, let's hope they come back faster than that."

"Azira-"

He hung up on Crowley. Not very nice, he knew, and oh, he really wanted nothing more than to hear his lover's voice, as rough as it sounded.

Pressing his phone against his forehead, Aziraphale held back tears. The middle of a local flea market was no place to break down. Instead, he muttered a blessing under his breath in Enochian. A heavier aura blocker than he used against humans, it should hide him from the average powered demon. Thus, Crowley. No point encouraging him to go looking. He'd freeze in Kazan.

* * *

Two days later, Aziraphale got another call from Crowley.

“Where are you?” he asked, voice still rough but he sounded better.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Angel, please. I promise I won’t show up there. I, I can’t anyway.”

Aziraphale clutched his phone tightly. “None of your magic has returned?”

“Did you really expect it too?”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “How are you feeling otherwise, my dear?”

Crowley sat silent for a moment. “Honestly, fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true, angel! No ache and pains, nothing. It never hurt, I just found I could do less and less. I have to live like a human and its...”

“Enjoyable?”

“Degrading!” Crowley yelled. “Thank Someone I don’t have to eat like them, because can you see me cooking meals? Apron around my waist?”

“Mmmm, yes, actually.”

“I’ll wear it if you come home.”

“That’s not happening, Crowley.” He shut his phone with a snap, instantly hating the abrupt hang up.

While he stood there in self-loathing, Crowley called again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just -”

“I miss you too,” Aziraphale admitted.

He looked up, watching a flock of birds sweep around the top of the Kremlin. Despite his ward, and knowing Crowley had no magic, he still traveled quickly. No more than two days in a city. Practice, for when Crowley’s magic _did_ return and Aziraphale would have to stay one step ahead.

“Where are you?” Crowley asked again. “I won’t come, I’d have to take a bloody plane and by the time I’d get there you’d be gone, but, tell me what you see. Tell me about your day.”

Aziraphale melted. “Moscow. I’ve been traveling through Russia, and I wanted to see the Kremlin. I didn’t expect it to remind me of Eden.”

Crowley snorted. “I don’t believe you. It’s a military complex.”

“Well, yes. And there’s a lot of buildings topped in gold that sit on a hill. But I’m on the south side of the Moskva River, and from here it looks like a walled garden with lots of trees.”

“Any apple trees?”

“No, you wily snake. I don’t believe it’s a garden they encourage people to spend time in.”

“If you want to see a better one, I hear England is full of them.”

“We can see them when you’re better.”

Crowley sighed. “Where are you going next?”

“I like the idea of simply going for a walk. Russia is fairly wide. You crossed a sandy desert once. I’ll cross a frozen one.”

“Will your phone work?” Crowley sounded desperate and Aziraphale’s heart clenched. He hated not being near Crowley. In the past ten years, he’d gotten used to seeing him almost every hour of every day. He loved holding Crowley’s hand, carding fingers through the demon’s hair. Being apart sometimes felt like a needless masochist punishment. 

Then he remembered Crowley’s dull, dead wings. A celestial body bleached white. The demon’s inability to do anything but lie on a bed and make his corporation breathe. As much as this separation between them hurt, those two weeks thinking he was watching Crowley die were worse.

“I’ll make sure it works. I’ll call every day.”

“I’ll hold you to that, angel.”

* * *

“I got a job,” Crowley said.

“A, a what?” Aziraphale stopped walking. He wasn’t anywhere in particular, just the wild expanse of Russia. The scenery was beautiful and the nightscapes painful – all the stars reminded him of Crowley.

“A job.”

“Well, whatever for?”

Crowley coughed and mumbled on the other end of the call.

“Come again?”

“Petrol for the Bentley,” Crowley sighed.

“Ah.” Aziraphale winced. He’d noticed the change in the demon’s driving habits. Slower speeds, no longer parking right in front of the shop. In hindsight, it made perfect sense that it resulted from his diminishing power.

“So are you working at a petrol station-“

“Not working _for_ petrol, angel. Working for money, which I’m using to buy the petrol.”

“I see.”

Money. He’d forgotten about money. He and Crowley had never _needed_ money, or rather it was easy to conjure up and place where needed. On the table of a restaurant, in a company’s account, in a pocket.

If Aziraphale was home, he would miracle the Bentley’s tank full. He would do all the little things – boil the kettle for tea, lock doors, turn off lights. Instead, he’d left Crowley home by himself to do everything the human way.

“You haven’t developed a need to eat, have you?” Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d do if Crowley did. Because _being hungry_ implied a human-functioning body, which also implied _aging_ and that could mean… that could mean a very long eternity.

“Nope. Not having powers hasn’t stopped the basic benefits of being an immortal entity,” Crowley answered, “I don’t get hungry, I don’t get more tired than normal, or any of the other pesky human things. I just have to _pay_ for things I want.”

“Is that a lot?” Aziraphale’s range for miracles was rather limited, he wouldn’t be able to provide anything for Crowley without returning to London. A trip he wanted to avoid.

There was a pause on the other line. “Just petrol.”

Aziraphale didn’t believe him but didn’t press. He trusted Crowley to tell him if he needed something. More likely, the demon didn’t want to admit an embarrassing want.

“What’s the job, my dear?”

“Met a local farmer in the park today. He sells flowers and things at the weekly market and wants help taking care of the planets. Told him I could do it.”

“Oh, Crowley, that’s wonderful. Please don’t yell at them too much.”

Crowley scoffed and Aziraphale smiled at the sound.

He imagined Crowley in a greenhouse, whispering threats while trying not to be overheard by a coworker. Others seeing the beautiful, healthy flowers he grew. It made Aziraphale ache to not be there and give Crowley a kiss or more, celebrating another integration with humans, another way to experience Earth.

An experience Aziraphale was forcing Crowley to have.

“Has none of your power returned? Not even a single down feather’s worth?” he whispered. It’d been a month.

“No,” Crowley answered.

Aziraphale continued his walk east.

* * *

Aziraphale smiled while he listened to Crowley ramble about work. The Sea of Okhotsk spread out before him, cold and wide, quite a contrast to the heatwave in London Crowley was complaining about.

“I don’t mind the heat,” the demon said, “Love it. But it’s not good for a market day. We can’t shade all the plants so they wilt.”

“The poor basil.”

“Eh, it’ll deal if it knows what’s good for it.”

Aziraphale smiled. Worried about plants one moment, yelling at them the next. He supposed it was progress, Crowley admitting his feelings out loud more often. If Aziraphale were home, he’d kiss Crowley’s temple and trace the resulting blush.

“Where are you today?” Crowley asked.

“I crossed Aniva Bay, so at the north end of Japan. Near Abishiri.”

“Knew you’d end up in Japan. On a hunt for the best sushi you can find, eh?”

“Oh yes, I do say I’ll be visiting a lot of restaurants.”

“Mark your favorites, we’ll visit again in a year or two.”

Aziraphale’s heart lurched. “Does this mean your powers are coming back?”

“No,” Crowley said flatly. “Maybe next week.”

* * *

“I’m going to Tadfield today.”

“Whatever for? It’s not summer holidays, Adam won’t be home.”

“I-,” Crowley cleared his throat, “I asked Book Girl to teach me a few occult spells.”

“Spells, oh Crowley! Does this mean your feathers are turning black again?”

Crowley didn’t answer. Aziraphale frowned, poking his tapioca pudding with a spoon. “Crowley, dearest, have they?”

“No.” Crowley sounded defeated in a way Aziraphale hadn’t expected, hadn’t heard since the last time they’d seen each other. _I’ve got no power left._ “It’s bloody ridiculous, that’s what it is. My powers should be coming back, you’re on the other side of the world for Earth’s sake! I don’t know why they haven’t.”

Crowley’s frustration and annoyance were real; it’s been three months now since Aziraphale left. He didn’t expect Crowley to be _healed_. It took 10 years for him to lose his magic and Aziraphale hoped it wouldn’t take that long to come back, but wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. But not a single feather? A pocket of power?

He put down his spoon. “They’ll come back, dearest.”

They’d better come back because three months apart was a hole in Aziraphale’s heart. Crowley was doing so much on his own, troubles the angel could smooth over with a snap, and here he was, eating dessert. _It’s for his long-term benefit,_ Aziraphale reminded himself.

He pushed away his pudding. Everything in Korea tasted wonderful, but the empty chair across from him always left a bitter taste in the back of his throat. 

“So,” Aziraphale cleared his throat, “why is Anathema teaching you spells then?”

“Well, they’re different from what we got, yeah? She doesn’t draw power from Heaven or Hell, she gets it from, what’d she say,” Crowley dissolved into a bit of mumbling, spitting out phrases Aziraphale only half made out. “Don’t remember what she said exactly,” the demon eventually said, “but I think it comes down to nature. Earth. If a regular human can tap into that, a demon should be able to too. Could jump start things.”

“Let me know?”

“I’ll call again before bed.”

“Thank you, dear.”

He wanted to ask half a dozen questions. Had the lack of power led to other issues in Crowley’s life? More things he needed to buy? Things he needed to do? Had he aged? He’d asked before, dozens of times. Crowley hissed he was fine every time and Aziraphale knew his questions were more an annoyance at this point then a reminder he cared. He’d have to rely on the promise he’d wrung out of Crowley – to tell Aziraphale of any changes.

“See if Anathema can help refresh the wards, they’ll fade eventually.”

“They’re fine, angel. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Yes, I do.”

Another old argument; Aziraphale concerned that without power Crowley couldn’t protect himself against Heaven and Hell. Crowley had tried to use that worry to convince Aziraphale to come home, and Aziraphale had with great reluctance not given in. Their old sides had been quiet for ten years, keeping to the unspoken arrangement that came with two failed executions. Still, he’d made sure Crowley knew exactly where all the weapons were in the bookshop and had seven escape plans outlined just in case.

Despite having no magic, Crowley didn’t seem too concerned about his own safety. It made Aziraphale nervous.

With a deep sigh that conjured the image of Crowley running his hand through his hair, the demon gave in. “I’ll see if she’s got something that works as a power booster. I don’t think she can redo an Enochian ward.”

“Thank you, love.” Aziraphale grinned at the silent blush he sensed down the line.

“I miss you,” Crowley whispered. _Come home._

 _“_ I miss you, too,” Aziraphale answered. _Not yet._

* * *

“I don’t know why I never tried to look at auras with _human_ sense before,” Crowley rambled.

“Mmmhmm.”

“It’s weird, limiting myself like that, but it’s a whole different look at people.”

“Mmm.”

“They all have weird tentacles coming out of their butts.”

“Crowley!”

The demon laughed loud enough Aziraphale hastily lowered the volume on his phone. “Sorry, angel. Wanted to make sure you were listening.”

“I’m always listening.” He might not be listening to the _words_ Crowley said, but he was always listening when the demon spoke. He had nothing else, these past six months, but Crowley’s voice. He’d memorized how Crowley said every sound in at least three emotions already.

“Then I want you to listen to this, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale sat up straighter in his chair, one hand pressing his mobile against the side of his head, the other clutching the silverware on the table before him. “I’m listening.”

“I, its, ngk,” Crowley tripped over his own tongue, “I, we, Anathema and I, we have a theory. About celestial magic. The ethereal and infernal kind. Angels and demons.”

Aziraphale tightened his grip on the fork and knife, completely ignoring the waitress who set a plate of macsharo yariis in front of him.

“The thing is, Aziraphale, I don’t think I’m _ever_ getting my powers back. So please, please come home?”

“Are you sure, absolutely sure?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Sure enough. Six months, angel, and _nothing’s_ returned. Come home. I miss you.”

“I-” Aziraphale shuttered his eyes, torn between wanting to stay away to give Crowley the chance to recover and flying home as fast as he could to sweep the demon into his arms.

Six months was a long time, even with daily conversations between beings who lived forever. Unless Crowley wouldn’t. Not anymore. What if these six months had been nothing but time he threw away?

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll be home in a few days, my dear.”

“Thank you, angel. You better fuck me for a week.”

Aziraphale choked and in his embarrassment, fumbled his phone and ended the call. He popped one of the mini rice and coconut cakes into his mouth, placed down enough Somali shillings to cover his meal, and walked out of the restaurant leaving most of his plate untouched.

He had somewhere to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Crowley's not dead! This means I can totally post wip snippets on Tumblr again without giving up major plot spoilers.


	3. Adjustment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finally returns home at Crowley's insistance.

Becoming effectively human, if an immortal, non-biologically driven one, had given Crowley new ways to manage stress. Namely, cleaning and organizing. He couldn’t snap away dust or dry up spilled tea. He had to _actually do it._

As soon as Aziraphale said yes, he was coming home, Crowley lost hours to cleaning the bookshop. He’d been keeping up somewhat with the dusting the past six months, he didn’t want the angel to come home and see the place dirty, but it wasn’t near the spick-and-span nature Aziraphale kept it at.

Thus, Crowley dusted each book, bookshelf, and lampshade by hand. He pulled all the books forward so the spines lined up with the edge of the shelf. Vacuumed the rugs and couch. Took a cloth to the windows.

Aziraphale was coming _home_ and Crowley wanted the bookshop in tip-top shape for him. The sheer size of the bookshop, and all he needed to do, also kept Crowley from looking at the clock.

While the physical labor kept his hands busy, Crowley wished the task occupied more of his mind. When he had woken up six months ago, he wanted nothing more than to shout at Aziraphale. Did he know how terrified, how lonely, how scared Crowley had been when he woke? Had the angel stopped to think before he dashed off all, all, all _noble_ like.

The anger had eventually simmered down, leaving behind a large ache in Crowley’s chest. After ten years of being in a relationship, Crowley missed Aziraphale greatly and he had imagined jumping Aziraphale as soon as they saw each other. Press him against a shelf and snog him senseless. Or just wrapping the angel in a hug. Sex. Holding hands. Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d missed more.

Now though. Now, none of the words he’d been building up, none of his desperate need for Aziraphale, mattered as much as what Crowley had to tell him.

He was stuck like this.

Forever.

Crowley angrily polished the door handle, even as he knew how useless the action was. Aziraphale could call upon his magic and get all the cleaning done. He was putting all this effort into things for nothing. It’d be a better use of his time to get himself ready. Style his hair, put on some cool clothes. He wanted to make an _impression_ on Aziraphale. Look what you left. Look at what you could have been having. Look, I’m doing well.

A clean bookshelf didn’t do that. It was just a shop.

But it was Aziraphale’s shop. Their home. And the angel might get _ideas_ about Crowley’s capabilities if he came home to a dirty store.

That was more important than looking good. That Aziraphale saw how well Crowley had been managing. Because if he had managed being powerless for six months on his own, well eternity would be just as easy. Easier maybe, if Aziraphale could power the Bentley and Crowley could stop helping to sell things at the farmers market. He’d probably still help out at the greenhouse, though. He enjoyed the humidity, the smell of mulch, the praise his horticulture skills got him.

Crowley rubbed at his eyes, tried. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been cleaning, but at least the majority of two days. Maybe three? He remembered looking out the window several times to see the headlights of passing cars as he cleaned, but that could have been the same night or two different ones.

He didn’t _need_ the sleep. Never had. But his habit for nightly naps had conditioned his body to want them, and every part of his body screamed for a bed. He could make coffee, but he’d have to prep the machine and wait for it. It would require letting go of the duster, and Crowley wasn’t sure he could do that.

Let it go, and he could make coffee or he might fall asleep halfway through. Let it go, and he might not finish cleaning before Aziraphale came and Crowley didn’t want that. Let it go, and his thoughts would wander instead of staying the low buzz at the back of his head.

He shook his head. His thoughts were already intrusive, his hands were covered in chemical residue, his shirt cuffs in dust. Coffee it was and then he’d do something really labor intensive – hand wash the rug.

Halfway to the back room, there was a thump from above.

Crowley paused. Closed his eyes.

He’d never had the best vision, and it had shifted further with the loss of his magic. After all, human perception wasn’t natural to him; he’d been shifting his more snake-like vision to the human standard via a constant stream of magic. Now magicless, he heavily relied on how well his corporation handled a snake’s vibration sense and chemoreception. His employer believed him fully blind. 

There, on the roof, was a heavy something moving around. He couldn’t taste what, too far away and the roof was in the way, but it moved with something like footsteps.

Crowley dropped the duster and made his way to the stairs leading to the apartment above the bookshop. As he moved, he opened his eyes and _shifted_ his sight in the way Anathema taught him. Aura seeing. It was the only way he could see in the bright colors of normal human vision and to the witch’s astonishment Crowley’s ability to see auras hadn’t been limited to living things.

He could see it on objects too.

Useful, that.

It was how, looking up, he noticed a burst of white light in the roof in a perfect square right in the ceiling near the top of the stairs. He had no idea what it was until something moved and it wasn’t just the ceiling anymore, he could taste the sky, there was a similarly white-bright figure beyond -

He had half a second to put together what had happened – Aziraphale had landed on the roof, miracled up a trap door, and had opened it – before he felt achingly familiar hands on his face.

“Oh, Crowley.”

He surged forward to kiss the angel. Aziraphale let him for ten seconds, no more, before pulling away.

“I need to see,” he whispered.

Crowley frowned. He wanted nothing more right now but to kiss the angel, maybe yell at him. Damn his snake eyes, he couldn’t read expressions well anymore. Too blurry.

“Please,” Aziraphale said. Begged, and for all that Crowley couldn't decipher Aziraphale’s face, he could break apart his voice.

Crowley took three steps back, careful of the stairs behind him, and called out his wings. Aziraphale went straight toward them, zipping barbs and straightening out feathers absent-mindedly as he went about his true goal – checking on the status of Crowley’s magic. The angel was gentle, but the more wing we went through, the more desperate his searching became.

“I told you,” Crowley said as Aziraphale moved from one wing to the other, “it’s not coming back, angel.”

“I still want to see.”

Crowley continued to stand still, wings extended, while Aziraphale went through his other wing. When he finished, the angel huffed and stepped away.

“Did you want to check me too?” Crowley asked, but even as he did Aziraphale had turned his attention to Crowley’s left hand. He dragged fingertips across the demon’s skin: up, down, around, left, right.

Crowley hadn’t looked at himself in a while, but he could imagine what Aziraphale was looking at, looking for. Scanning Crowley’s self on the other plane, examining every millimeter for a black spot that held a trace of magic.

Like his wings, Crowley knew exactly what the angel would find – a body bleached everywhere of magic.

He knew Aziraphale’s touches weren’t meant to be arousing, but it’d been six months and the minute brush of a fingertip’s ridge was enough to send shivers down Crowley’s back. By the time Aziraphale finished Crowley’s body was buzzing, but he held back from yanking his lover close.

Aziraphale stood in front of him, wringing his hands. “Are you truly okay, my dear?”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Not a fan of cleaning the long way, but yeah. I’m okay. No ill effects.”

“And now that I'm here, you won’t?” Crowley heard Aziraphale swallow. “You won’t fall asleep. You won’t...”

Crowley held out a hand. Aziraphale took it, and the demon pulled him close. Resting his chin on the angel’s shoulder, he gave his answer directly to Aziraphale’s ear. “I woke up, didn’t I? I’m perfectly fine without magic.”

“Me being here won’t hurt you?”

Crowley snaked his arms around the angel’s soft middle. “Waking up alone six months ago hurt me more.”

Aziraphale tensed. Tried to pull away. Crowley didn’t let him.

“I’m sorry, love,” Aziraphale whispered.

“No, you’re not,” Crowley answered. “But if you show me how much you missed me, I might forget.”

“Is that so?” Aziraphale’s breathe tickled Crowley’s ear, just before the angel sucked gently on the skin behind it.

“It’s a possibility.” A shiver ran down Crowley's spine.

“Are you sure my love won’t hurt you?” Aziraphale asked again.

Crowley leaned back in Aziraphale’s arms. He could barely make out the worried frown on the angel’s face. Gently, he leaned in and kissed Aziraphale’s mouth. “I’m sure. Now, how much did you miss me?”

* * *

As it turned out, Aziraphale missed him quite a lot.

* * *

Aziraphale was touching him again; slow, steady strokes down his back that made Crowley believe that while he was touching Crowley’s corporation, he was really looking at Crowley’s celestial form. He turned his head to look at the angel but ended up closing his eyes.

It hurt more than he expected, the inability to see Aziraphale’s clearly. To catalog his expressions. Crowley still had his other senses, sharper now, to figure out the angel’s emotions, but he missed Aziraphale’s face.

A touch on his temple had Crowley opening his eyes. Aziraphale had moved, laying centimeters away instead of inches, and this close Crowley could see all the details of his love’s face.

He brought up a hand and brushed fingers down Aziraphale’s cheek. “I missed you.”

Aziraphale caught his hand and kissed it.

“You’re not going again, are you?”

“Explain to me what you and Anathema think? About why your magic is not coming back?”

With a sigh, Crowley wiggled forward to slot his head under Aziraphale’s chin. “It’s a theory, but it makes sense to me.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale started carding his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

The demon hummed in pleasure before answering. “Where does your magic come from?”

“Heaven.”

“Mmm, they do keep a tally on the miracles you do. Or used too, anyway.”

“Did your magic come from Hell then, dearest?”

“Close enough.”

Aziraphale’s hand tightened painfully in Crowley’s hair and he hissed.

“Sorry.” Aziraphale kissed the crown of Crowley’s head. “I don’t want ‘close enough’, Crowley. I want the exact answer.”

Crowley flicked out his tongue. He caught the scent of Aziraphale’s dried sweat, remnants of his last few meals. He felt the vibrations of the angel’s nervous swallow.

“Magic isn’t inherent to angels,” Crowley said. “They aren’t created with it, it’s a gift that God gave you. And when we Fell, it was another thing we lost.

“I don’t,” Crowley swallowed, both casting his mind back and not wanting to, “I don’t remember losing magic. Compared to losing _Her_ it wasn’t as important. Wasn’t as painful.” Aziraphale gave him a reassuring squeeze. “But somehow, Satan found a power source and played God. Gave us all a second gift of magic.

“Magic is just doing things with a power source that not everyone can plug into. Anathema tied human magic to the Earth. It powers what she does, it ebbs and flows, has cycles that follow nature. A lot of it is perception based. Giving you a different sense, a different way of seeing things. Auras have pretty colors.”

“And our magic is more creation based,” Aziraphale said. “A snap, and we have new clothes.”

“Yeah. Earth magic doesn’t do that unless you count bindings but that’s really a harnessing of energy. Anyway, Anathema has a whole slew of theories as to what powers celestial magic. One of them being God Herself, which might explain why no one has heard from Her if She turned Herself into energy that gets burned up every time an angel snaps a miracle.”

“What does this have to do with your magic not coming back?”

“Well, if my access to it was a gift from Satan, he’s not giving it back. But also, it’s not a part of being a demon. Not really. Just like magic isn’t part of being an angel. God didn’t create us as magical creatures. We’re just us.” Crowley shrugged. “Angels, or celestial beings to include both of us, weren’t created with magic, angel. It means I can live without it. I _have_ been living without it. It sucks, but it’s doable.”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale pressed his cheek against the crown of Crowley’s head. “I’ve always had magic and so thought it was a part of me. Us. Angels and demons. But as you truly are okay-“

“Fit as a fiddle.”

“Then there is merit to Anathema’s theory.”

“Exactly what I told her!”

Aziraphale laughed. “I’ll have to thank her for looking out for you.”

“Yeah, it’s a drive from here to Tadfield. But she made it weekly.”

“You didn’t go to her?”

Crowley curled up tight against Aziraphale’s front.

“Crowley? Dearest? I thought you got a job to pay for petrol.”

“I… can’t drive. Not very well, anyway. The Bentley helps, but she has a hard time in cities. Too many obstacles.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is a corporation, angel. Who I really am? More snake-like then you’d think. Complete with snake vision problems.”

“Oh, dearest.”

“It’s not a problem, angel,” Crowley hissed, even as he buried his head further into Aziraphale’s chest.

“You love driving.”

“I still can, with the Bentley’s help. Just, in the country.”

Aziraphale tugged Crowley up so he could plant kisses on his face. One on his forehead, then one on either eyelid. “I feel like I rather abandoned you.”

“Yeah, well.”

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley sighed. He felt the weight behind that. The tender, desperate touch of Aziraphale’s hands on his back and side. The earnestness of his voice.

“From now on,” Aziraphale said, “Anything you want, let me know. I’ll keep the Bentley’s tank full. Refill the water mister for your plants-“

“I can use the sink myself, thanks.”

“Make the reservations at the Ritz, pay for every dinner.”

Crowley blushed scarlet. He wanted to say _you don’t have to._ Or better yet, _please don’t._ He’d always done those for Aziraphale. Liked doing them. While the angel beamed at crepes and capers, Crowley had indulged in watching Aziraphale enjoying himself. Had loved being the one to make it happen by handling the logistics, even though the angel could have done it, no problem.

But the truth of the matter was, he couldn’t.

Everything he used to do for Aziraphale was beyond his ability now. He was limited to physical acts of affection. Making tea the long way. Kissing him long and slow. Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn’t mind the change, but Crowley did. He liked the way he loved Aziraphale and he had never expected it to change.

Neither of them had.

“You sound like you’re gonna make me a kept man.”

“Is that so bad?” Aziraphale said as he ran his nose along Crowley’s jawline. “I’d whisk you away to a cottage in the country. Give you everything you wanted.”

“The only thing I want is you, angel.” He titled his neck, giving Aziraphale access to more skin. “Don’t want anything else. Don’t leave again.” The last bit came out in an embarrassing whine.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale promised. “I love you too much.”

Crowley hummed. Aziraphale loved him so much, so powerfully, it had burnt away Satan’s gift of magic. And he didn’t mind, not at all. Because what was magic to knowing his was loved? To the feel of Aziraphale’s lips on his? His fingers on his spine? His lap as a pillow, his breath in Crowley’s mouth? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

“Then I guess it’s okay if you keep me,” Crowley said, the last word stretching to a moan as Aziraphle’s fingers stroked up his thigh.

“Keep you here and keep you safe,” Aziraphale whispered. “Till the world finally dies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story, ya'll! 
> 
> I rather love the idea of a powerless Crowley, so if you have any scenes you'd like to see with that, just let me know on [Tumblr](uniasus.tumblr.com). I put waay to much time into imagining what Crowley got up to in those six months without writing those scenes.

**Author's Note:**

> The concept of love turning demon wings white comes from meinposhbastard, so please go read their story!


End file.
